“Poor thing. Even the heroes weren’t buried. It’s just that you can still hear a lot of screams and bellowing way off in the bushes, especially when the rain passes and the roots are stirred up. But we believe, we believe. We cling to it.”

“Do they hear you?”

“When I pray. They sound, appear by the dozens.”

“They speak from a blurry, opaque spot you can hardly tune into.”

“I’m the only one who can feel them, understand?”

“Invite me to breakfast.”

“I said no.”

“Are you accustomed to servitude already?”

“It becomes beautiful when it’s voluntary.”

“Is that so?”

“These are historic efforts.”

“What a shame.”

“It’s my life, my struggle.”

“Our death, everyone’s, doesn’t this implicate you?”

“You all rush too much.”

“It smells really bad.”

“It gives so much.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“I lost the pain. I lost my voice three years ago.”

“Now I just drag myself along the roads. Many of us live like this.”

“It’s better not to see, better to pretend nothing’s happening, better to leave.”